


Blade

by Imperium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Death & Michael, Hurt Lucifer, Hurt Michael (Supernatural), Hurt No Comfort, M/M, War, War (Supernatural) & Death (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 13:53:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18344993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imperium/pseuds/Imperium
Summary: Michael loved until his flames were nothing but embers in the the dust(Or)War should really have seen this coming





	Blade

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is largely inspired by the works of @Justmariamay.  
> If you haven't read their works, you really really should.

War always came where he wasn't wanted. He got a kick out of that. There was a sense of perverse satisfaction in watching God’s children desperately build and create and nurture and  _ love _ , only to tear it apart themselves. It’s where he and Michael had met. Michael found absolution for his bloodstained hands within his Father’s orders. War didn’t need absolution. He was born to destroy and he wouldn’t apologize for taking some measure of joy in it.

 

Many years before creation and the devastation it left in it's wake, it had been simple. War came and Michael fought. 

 

He had been tiny then. A small cosmic spec in the horizon. He'd been stumbling through the vast expanse of nothing when War had found him. Soft wings thumping rhythmically as Michael tried to fly. War, in the easy helpfulness one would expect from  _ War  _ picked him up and threw him into the air. He left after that. He was sure that the tiny speck would have figured out how to flap his wings when he was already in the air. 

 

He hadn't . 

 

Michael had gone sailing through the air, flapped his wings too hard and crashed explosively into a star. On the brighter side, he had accidentally created a gas giant and named it Dot. So War didn't regret it,  _ Too Much _ .  

 

Michael had sought him out, years later, still cripplingly alone, but now he could  _ fly.  _ He held the bleeding monster in his arms and asked  _ War  _ to  _ help.  _

 

“Please.” he had said. Voice breaking. Large eyes overwhelmed with emotion. “I can't find my Father” 

 

War had felt the place where his heart was twinge. He had picked up the monster and given him to his sisters. Famine and Pestilence would know what to do. And the annoying child would never come looking for him again. 

 

When War had returned Michael's friend his true colors revealed as flaming hungry abomination, the angel had given them all an angry look and run away from them as fast as he could. War ignored the part of him that wished he had stayed. 

 

Nevertheless, overtime War had grown to, dare he say it,  _ care  _ for the angel.  _ Archangel  _ now. War remembers the tiny spec who had blown so much up and caused so much damage  _ accidentally _ . He cannot imagine Michael as  _ arch  _ anything. 

 

Things had changed over time of course. 

 

He was War, and Michael, well..  Michael was the warrior, with the ferocious love only found in a lioness guarding her Cubs. And War was drawn to him always - blind, delusional and near crazy in his ardent devotion.

 

‘Moths to a Flame’ Famine would laugh, and War would hate his sister. Death would give him a worried look. He had the terrible overbearing idea that War needed his  _ protection _ . Kill those that War got attached to. Achilles, Cleopatra,  Hephaestion, though admittedly the last had been more Pestilence. 

 

Kind Cruel Brothers. 

 

He recalls with clarity, the warmth of Michael's black gold grace, flickering with those flashes of red that drew those monsters and _ abominations  _  to him, royalty even then, with nothing to rule over. 

 

Then, Michael hadn’t known what he was truly capable of. Maybe he’d never understood that, until the end. That it all it had  _ ever  _ taken from him, was a word and his wayward siblings would have gladly given him the throne that was his  _ birthright _ . Michael had never known, never  _ understood  _ that just how alluring an inferno could be for the self destructive cosmic entities he surrounded himself with. He had been young, and his warmth resembled that of a hearth in the winter, the gentle warmth of a mother's embrace, the pride in a Father's eyes, the trembling happiness of a sibling's love, although War wouldn’t really know how any of that felt like.

 

When Lucifer had been created, Michael's inferno of love had expanded, to cradle the white starlight of Lucifer's near unbearable beauty in his own tiny golden arms. Sheltering, protective,  _ almost  _ everything Lucifer had ever wanted. 

 

War had, dare-he-say-it almost been happy. Life was a simple cycle of life and death, and War did what he could in between. Entertaining his brother, and Michael  _ ever the champion  _ took upon the role of a  _ protector _ , much to general hilarity.

 

Yet. 

 

Yet, Michael had worn blood so well. War would know that better than most. They had fought back to back in so many battles. Michael had loved him dearly, War knew that. There had been a part of him that loved Death too, much to his brother’s endless amusement. War assumed that was why he had let War’s little distraction live for so long.  _ Curiosity _ . What a funny ridiculous little thing.  

 

Michael had loved his little Leviathan friend too, maybe he should have realised the catastrophe this would invoke even then, but War had been young, and drunk on power - the heady sensation of the Universe trembling at his fingertips, and couldn’t resist turning that already wretched abomination into a starving thriving monster who thirsted for Michael’s own blood. 

 

_ So Hilarious _

 

Love was dangerous. The child should have learnt that by then. 

 

War would have certainly gotten frustrated by the time Lucifer in his needy love and desperate possessive attention had grown up. But then, Gabriel and Raphael were born - and the cycle continued. War had never abhorred life as much. Living required so much, in Death came peace, but somehow everyone feared his brother more.  _ Mortals _ .

 

When the last two primordial beings were born, the two of them had raised the last two archangels together, Lucifer the fun and lively playmate. Michael - the indulgent parent. They had loved Lucifer so much more for that, which War understood. Lucifer had always been so terribly easy to love, and even as he declared his undying hatred for something, it couldn't help but supplant themselves at his feet, numb, silent and struck stupid by his glorious beauty - humans themselves were a vivid example.  _ Huh _ . He didn't think Raphael and Gabriel would appreciate that comparison at all. . 

 

War was drawn to power, power was seamless, shifting,  _ illusionary _ ; and the quest for power always led to him. War liked power, and Michael was power itself. He liked to think he was in a quest for Michael, but wasn't  foolish enough to believe that Michael was his ultimate destination. He would transcend the flame, even as he passed through it and took its nurturing warmth. 

 

War presumed Michael should have been used to that by now. People around him taking all he could give, and then a little more. Never ever enough. It was tragic really, but as he had said, quest for  _ more _ always led to him, and War was always happy to see Michael,  _ always. _

 

He meets Michael in heaven when the Star falls from the Sky. He infuses the quivering heart with the strength to strike the final blow and Lucifer falls. War could hardly stand the brat, but the look of pain in  _ Helel's  _ beautiful face, halts even him for a bit. War knows if Michael were capable he would have screamed. Screamed the scorching wave of his fury and pain to everyone witness. They would all have perished, all but him, War supposed, and then what fun would anything be ?

 

God's experiments, War's playthings, and Michael's responsibility. Poor Angels had never stood a chance. 

 

Another empire falls, War follows the Phoenicians through the sea, no doubt to cause great chaos. He smiles. He supposed this is the closest he'd get to satisfaction. Contrary to what people thought, War didn’t actually enjoy annihilation. He was just forced to bear witness to it.

 

The ocean washes away most of the blood but not all of it. He ignores the nose bleed and continues forward. War had learnt to accept that he will always have bleeding wounds and battle scars. They heal a bit in the company of his angel, but the angel's touches also burn, fiery hot in their unforgiving purity. War burns even as he laughs. 

 

Love and War weren't all that different at the root of it. 

 

It was all always a giant game, Michael's Father and his older Brother, a ridiculous game of chess or chicken. War used to think they never caused significant damage to each other because they had cared about these little beings in their charge. Eventually he had realised that both just feared the game ending. War can't really blame them.

 

He supposed being the balance Life and Death must be  _ boring _ .

 

War wonders how it would have been if Michael had rebelled, now that, and he couldn't have stopped the sigh if he had tried; and he hadn't  _ That would have been a game worth watching.  _ Michael was always the Queen even as he masqueraded as a Knight. Lucifer the King who wouldn't move from his own square while demanding that everyone else did.  _ Pretty Brat  _

 

Michael didn't play Favorites. It was one of the few consistencies of the Universe. Just like Famine would always wake the worst in everyone. Michael didn't play Favorites, but he  _ had  _ them. War would like to think he was a favorite. But thoughts like that had gotten Richard Roman and Lucifer and Gadreel and the million other moths nowhere, and War wasn't some sort of malleable entity, living life on the hope that one day Michael might look at him and see anything more than a mission. Famine could crow all she wanted, but War wouldn't burn. It's also why he doesn't go with his brother to see the  _ Archangel  _ in hell when his brother plays yet another game with the Winchester boys. He has no desire to see Michael's warmth fading in Lucifer's icy embrace. 

 

Its many years since War let's himself think of Michael again. He'd heard from the grapevine that the Archangel had gone insane, a shell of his former self. 

 

War is curious, but not curious enough to go check for himself.  _ He wouldn't admit the fear of Michael's blank eyes looking at him with no recognition - the only one fool enough to love War. _

 

He let's himself into the Winchesters magic bunker, the books are meticulously organized, the shelves cleaned, the weapons oiled. He thinks his Brother would have liked this place, his brother who seemed to have taken a page out of the Creator's book and gone underground. 

 

He walks into Dean Winchester's bedroom and feels around his soul. He cradles the warm flicker that is exclusively Michael and let's it lead him to the cage. 

 

The cage is empty, his brother stands in the ruin, something black and red in his arms, but there is  _ no gold and Michael was fire itself and no gold meant no fire. _

 

His brothers eyes are kind, gentle even. 

 

“It was already too late” he comments with a shrug, but War doesn't need him to justify himself. He understands. He too would rather Michael be in his brother's tender embrace than be flayed by his Father's cruel eyes. 

 

Only after he flies off to the next solar system and destroys every train of budding life does he let himself relax. Sink into the pool of blood and magma. 

 

He closes his eyes, and thinks of Michael's eyes - the blazing fiery gold of them, how they softened when he was happy, or amused, especially how they turned tender around his siblings, how they turned arrogant amongst sinners and regal amongst the saints. He snorts an ugly painful laugh and blood bubbles up in his mouth. 

 

‘It’s never going to heal again’ he realizes belatedly. 

 

He swings his sword in rapid circular motions, and sinks into the lava, the foolish vain parody of Michael’s warmth.

 

_ It was centuries after War and his siblings had destroyed the Leviathan completely that Michael comes to him again.  _

 

_ “Want help ?” he asks the annoying little Godling snidely.  _

 

_ He shakes his pretty head, curls bouncing. “I need you to teach me how to fight” he declares. His tone reverberates in the silence and War, against his will is actually impressed.  _

 

_ “You have any weapons ?” he asks the angel. _

 

_ Michael immediately looks chastened, head hung, and War sighs. Yet another beaten down warrior - desperate to prove his worth. War was already bored of him; and yet. _

 

_ Yet. _

 

_ He walks forward, his boots crunching bone on the ground, drawing a long glowing piece of metal out of its scabbard. The moment Michael touches the hilt, it blazes forth, with Michael’s own divine energy. The Archangel doesn’t step back. He watches the flame - something unnameable, untamable in his eyes. War feels a shiver run through him. Who'd be so stupid to think that they could control Wildfire ? _

 

_ War lets it go, and stands behind the Angel to adjust his grip. Once he is satisfied, he pulls back to stare at Prince of the Celestial Armies. He wields the blade with fluid grace, whipping it through the dark chasm. _

 

_ “This is a sword” War tells him unnecessarily.  _

 

_ Michael smiles grimly, the flames flickering in his eyes.  _

 

_ It feels like Destiny.  _

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I think the trend is that I generally get bored of working on the same thing and post it for want of nothing else to do; regardless of whether or not it's worth publishing.


End file.
